


this is my Hyde side

by futureboy



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 90's Music, Acting, Feel-good, First Kiss, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Love Confessions, M/M, Party, Smoking, Teenage Losers Club (IT), Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 05:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21174536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futureboy/pseuds/futureboy
Summary: “I see you’ve come as a presentable human being, this year?”“On the contrary, my good man,” Richie preens. He fixes the collar of his polo shirt, just for the hell of it. “This year, I am our one and only Edward Kaspbrak, resident first-aider and honor roll student at the school of neuroses. How do I look?”[Senior Year Losers - Richie goes as Eddie for Halloween, which is a great idea, until Eddie turns up and beats him by amile.]





	this is my Hyde side

**Author's Note:**

> I thought this was gonna be 1k. A fool I be…
> 
> Costume list and mentioned songs at the end. Title courtesy of the Fresh Prince. Don’t drink or smoke underage, kiddos.

Mike’s throwing a party.

Scratch that - Mike’s grandfather is _ letting him throw a huge Halloween bash in the barn_, and Richie has never been so excited in his whole damn life. 

It feels like he’s been preparing for this night for months, but in actuality, he’d only had the Costume Idea of the Century last week. Keeping it under wraps has been freaking killing him. It’s unreal. Like, yeah, he’s excited for the dancing and the giddiness and the killer music and _ especially _ for the booze, but the thing he’s most excited for?

He had to enlist help for it. That’s how serious he is about playing it straight.

“Stop fidgeting,” Mike says out of the corner of his mouth.

He looks like he’s about to continue, but then a bunch of his football friends make their grand entrance, so Bill takes over and elbows him. “Yeah, Trashmouth, Eddie doesn’t f-f-fidget.”

Richie rubs at his ribs and grins. Mike’s doing a complicated handshake with the running back. He’d put a blanket ban on clown costumes and toilet-paper mummies, because he’s an angel sweetheart _ darling _ (“don’t call me that, Richie--”), so there’s no chance of anything wigging any of them out tonight. What a babe. The music is pounding, and the lights are cycling through every colour of the rainbow, and Richie feels like something _ big _is about to happen tonight. It’s a good feeling, a fucking good feeling indeed.

The fanny pack hangs off his hip comfortably.

(He’s got smokes in there. Eddie won’t find it funny at all; Richie’s anticipating that reaction more than anything.)

About a week ago, the other Losers had been discussing their Halloween costumes - Bev had been set on going as a vampire since the previous year, Mike had mentioned an idea about Satan which sent Stan into a fit of laughter, and Eddie had said something about big teeth and a letterman jacket. Teen Wolf, maybe. Michael J Fox had been kinda hot in that movie, when he hadn’t been covered in hair, Richie thinks.

It was during this conversation that Richie had realised three very distinct things:

Firstly - Trick or Treating was out of the question if he was going to get tabled in the barn. No question about it.

Numero _ deux _ \- just because none of the others were going to cause havoc with their costumes, it didn’t mean that Richie couldn’t have a little fun.

_ Catorce _\- wait, that’s not three, that’s four. Richie flunked Spanish, cut him some slack, jeez. Anyway, the third and final point was this:

He had recently been trialing contact lenses.

That’s right - Trashmouth Tozier had finally listened to his dear old dad and tried something new. It didn’t matter that he hated them, just like he knew he would - they were itchy, they didn’t sit right, and the bridge of his nose felt funny without the weight of his glasses to rest on them, as though he’d unbalanced his head by daring to go outside without them. No, it didn’t matter a fuckin’ jot. He’d been Buddy Holly last year with them on. 

Now he could be Eddie Kaspbrak this year with them _ off_.

So he’d enlisted the help of Mike and Bill to perfect the look. Bev might’ve told Eddie; Ben would have _ definitely _ told Bev, that’s for sure. And Stan was a wildcard when it came to dealing with Richie’s shit, so he unfortunately Did Not Make The List for this particular stunt.

“Keep _ still_,” Bill hisses.

Richie grins again. It’d been Bill who’d helped him tease his hair into a parting, actually getting the waves to lie flat for once: “you should really dry it right--right after you shower,” he admonishes, brandishing a blow dryer menacingly, “if you let it s-s-sit then it goes…. Well, it goes Full Richie.”

“I know, Big Bill, I know, but I can’t reach the back properly with that thing! Do us a solid and make me beautiful, yeah?”

And Big Bill had. A _ damn good job_, is what he’d done, and he’d even said so himself.

Mike had been the saving grace outfit-wise, though. Richie found it very difficult to be neat, even when he was trying to get every detail down perfectly - Mike had come through with the slightly-too-big polo shirt and the pristine tube socks, because Richie owned a set of neither without significant stains.

Now here he stands, surrounded by Mike’s friends and their classmates in the barn, with a chunky calculator watch hanging from his wrist and sheer delight coursing through his veins. He even memorised the words to that Spandau Ballet song Eddie likes so much.

“I can’t fucking wait for him to see,” he beams, cracking open his first bottle of beer against one of the barn struts and clinking the neck against Bill’s. “I can’t tell if he’s gonna have kittens or a whole frickin’ cow. How do I look?”

“Weird without your s-specs,” Bill smiles. He’s wearing a blue beanie, matching jacket, and jeans, with bright red shoes. “How’re the contact lenses treating you?”

“Shitty, thanks for asking.”

He watches with amusement as Mike’s team drag him onto the dance floor, busting out some kind of intricate choreography to that Kris Kross song they played over the speaker system at the last game. They’ve all come in a group cheerleading costume as a role reversal. Richie’s heard that the cheerleaders are coming in football uniforms; he’s not sure about how that makes him feel, but something terrifying and awesome curls up in him at the thought.

“Mike looks like he’ll be a little while,” Bill remarks.

He’s not worried - as soon as Bev, Stan, Ben, and Eddie turn up, Mikey-boy will be right back with them. “Eh, give him a break,” Richie says, “he’s not gonna get those kind of dance moves with us. He’ll get _ better_. Losers’ Club dancing? _ Way _more swish than that garbage. I thought those guys were supposed to be the athletic ones?”

“Depends,” says Stan, from over his shoulder, “I practically have an Associate degree in ‘Running From Assholes’, so that could kind of count as track and field, I guess?”

“Stan the Man!” Richie roars, and whips around so fast that his beer bottle fizzes up. “You made it! We thought you’d ditched us for door-to-door bullshit.”

“Nah,” Stan smiles. “You know my mom would kill me. I see you’ve come as a presentable human being, this year?”

“On the contrary, my good man,” Richie preens. He fixes the collar of his polo shirt, just for the hell of it. “This year, I am our one and only Edward Kaspbrak, resident first-aider and honor roll student at the school of neuroses. How do I look?”

Stan squints, like he’s observing a particularly interesting fossil specimen in the Derry archives. “Honestly? You kinda look like you have a pin-face without your glasses on.”

“That’s what _ I _ thought,” Bill snorts. He swipes another beer from the cooler by their feet and pops it open. “Didja come with the others?”

Stan tentatively accepts. “Yeah, they’re close behind,” he says casually. “Putting the finishing touches on Bev’s costume.”

“Who are y-you?”

“I’m Springsteen, obviously,” he says, splaying his arms out. “Well - I’m _ Born in the USA_, technically. Check it out.”

He spins on his heel and cocks his hip. Stan’s wearing a loose, square shirt, and fairly tight jeans with a red baseball cap in the back pocket. Bill makes a noise of approval. It’s really close, considering Stan is the model - the ensemble makes him look broader, for sure.

“Dude,” Richie says, impressed, “that’s pretty good! You could totally be a contender for ass-lookalike of the year.”

Stan looks over his shoulder at them. “Thanks,” he laughs. “Hey, Bill, nice Smurf costume, by the way.”

The smirk slips from Bill’s face instantly, like sneakers on sheet ice. “Smurf? I’m S-Sonic the Hedgehog--”

He doesn’t get the explain himself any further, because a suited-up Ben appears at his elbow, bottle at the ready - he smacks off the cap against the same barn strut Richie had used, and clinks the base against the neck of Stan’s. “Hey, guys,” he beams - Richie’s gotta admit, he’s made a pretty cool entrance, so he’ll give him that one - “woah, Trashmouth, you don’t have your glasses on!”

“Well spotted with your monocle there, Haystack,” Richie says drily. “I can’t lie - you make a way better Penguin than Danny DeVito. Don’t let that get back to the man, though.”

“Penguin?” Ben says, in mock horror, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m Oswald Cobblepot, dude.”

Stan bursts out laughing and takes a generous swig of his beer - Richie watches the multicoloured lights bounce off the brown glass, and spots the same ones in Ben’s amused stare.

“What?”

“Just admiring your set-up,” Ben grins. “I’m guessing you’re not one of The Goonies.”

“Hell no. I’m Signor Spaghedward himself, dude,” Richie corrects. Then, with exaggerated theatricality, he checks his watch: “oh,” he says, “would you excuse me one second? I’ve just gotta-- let’s see, here--”

The other three watch as he rummages in his fanny pack, until he pulls out a little orange tube and unscrews the lid.

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologises, rattling off sentences at breakneck speed, “it’s just, it’s time for my medication, guys. If I don’t take it then my Mom is gonna have a fit, I’m _ serious_, this is basically a prescription for a conniption, you know what I’m sayin’?”

He shakes a couple of Skittles into his palm, and washes them down whole with a swig of booze.

Ben and Bill roar with laughter. He manages to mostly keep a straight face as they cling to each other’s shoulders for support, but he _ is _ pretty proud of himself.

“This,” Stan says thoughtfully, as Ben slaps at his own tuxedo-ed knee, “is about to be the greatest night of my entire life.”

“I’ll drink to that, Stanwell,” he agrees. “Hey, check it out, I even brought the aspirator he keeps at mine.”

“Are you sure you should be using that?” Ben asks.

“Sure I’m sure, it’s bullshit, right? This thing just tastes of battery acid, it’s not gonna have an actual effect or anything,” he shrugs.

Bill looks like he wants to add something on to that, but he stops, and stares a little way over Richie’s shoulder. Ben and Stan look up so fast he swears he hears their necks pop with whiplash.

“What,” he grins, “did the cheerleaders finally arrive?”

The comment about Mike looking good in one of those skirts dies on his lips.

“--come all the way to Mike’s house with _ Light Beer? _What’s even the point? That’s not even gonna sustain me for an hour, because I’m _ Trashmouth Tozier _ and I’m basically 5% alcohol content at all fuckin’ times. I could drink you under the table, Micycle Hanlon, and don’t you forget it - and I’d do my best with you, Agent Scully, but I don’t think those double-D cups are gonna _ fit _ under the table, darlin’-- _ ow_, Bev, I was just joking, I’m sorry, yeesh.”

Richie’s heart does a funny little flip.

“Hey, guys,” Bev grins. She, Mike, and Eddie approach them, and she grabs a couple of bottles from the cooler. “Sorry we’re late, I changed here - we were putting the finishing touches to my sleeves.”

“Nice werewolf getup, Beverly,” Ben grins, “I love the jacket.”

“Thanks,” she beams, and slings an arm around Mike’s shoulders jovially, “I literally just borrowed Hanlon’s letterman for the evening. Stole the idea from Eddie, too - Michael J Fox was kinda hot in that movie, right?”

Stan flicks at the ginger tufts poking out of her sleeves. “Maybe without the hair,” he remarks.

“Eh, I make it work. Bill, no offense, but you look like a really shitty Dr Manhattan.”

“J-Jesus Christ, I’m _ Sonic_\--”

Richie can’t talk.

Eddie’s getting Mike to open him a beer, generally clambering all over his arms and shoulders, and it’s so _ Richie _ that he thinks he might swallow his own tongue.

He thought he’d had it in the bag with his costume idea.

_ Fuck_.

Eddie’s in a disgustingly loud orange and purple shirt - it’s _ neon_, Richie’s actually a little jealous of it - with board shorts, and Keds with untied laces, and a huge pair of frames with the lenses popped out, which at one point were probably the two-dollar prescription spectacles that you could hoik from the pharmacy.

And, oh jeez, his _ hair_.

Beverly had a hand in this, definitely. Maybe two hands, orange and furry werewolf hands. Eddie’s hair is flopping into his eyes _ constantly_, brushed forwards in a way that suggests being unkempt but is more likely to be very carefully crafted. He has a crown instead of a parting. There’s a _ wave _ to it that’s not usually there - product? In Eddie’s hair? Unheard of. That’s the whole damned reason why his hair goes all staticky and furious when he gets worked up.

“Pretty good, huh?”

He’s startled out of his reverie. “What?”

“My costume,” Eddie-dressed-as-Richie says, and pops the collar of his shirt. “I’ve come as the world record holder for ‘biggest dick on Earth’. Strapping it down was a real Herculean feat, but what can I say - nothing’s too good for Mike, y’know? Plus, it’s, like, a danger to everyone if I just let it flop around, that snake’ll fuckin’ kill someone.”

Ben snorts beer out of his nose.

“I’d show it off, but I’m not sure anyone would be able to handle it,” Eddie continues, pushing his fake glasses up his nose. “Well, save for your mother, but she’s got these big, meaty, man hands, she was born for the job… A natural, lemme tell you, a _ natural_.”

He’s speechless.

Honest-to-God _ speechless_. There’s no other term for it. Richie hadn’t expected this, and Eddie had got him _ good_.

“What say you in your defence, ‘Eddie’?” Bev says, nudging him with a shit-eating grin on her face, and that’s about the moment in time when Richie realises he needs to get his act together.

He takes a deep breath, and curls his lip in disgust.

“Like my mom would go anywhere _ near _ your filth-ridden ass, ‘Trashmouth’,” he sneers. An _ oooooh!!! _ rises up from the Losers, and it spurs him on. “It makes sense, though, if, like, all the blood that’s supposed to be in your head? It’s just all pooling in your stupid crotch? You’re a miracle of science purely because you can still stand upright--”

“Upright?” Eddie grins. He’s taken the bait, and he _ knows _ that he has, and yet he still looks delighted. “Well, I guess in a pinch upright’s _ okay_, but everyone knows that you should be vertical when you do it. Gravity can’t help you out, otherwise, ‘Eddie’, my love.”

“You’re so frickin’ vile,” Richie bites back, shaking his parted hair. “No wonder everyone thinks you’re a fucknasty, you gross little cockroach man.”

“Oh, ‘Eds’, there ain’t no better creature to take a name from,” Eddie grins, and _ thrusts his hips forwards for emphasis_.

Beverly cackles-- Mike’s got tears pouring down his face--

He fumbles in the fanny pack and yanks out the inhaler, tensing his shoulders and taking a dramatic huff from it. “Don’t call me ‘Eds’,” he faux-wheezes. Bill’s about to collapse, he’s sure of it. With a jabbing hand, he cuts the air in half - “how about you back away from my mom and leave her alone, because she’s had enough of your shit over the years and so have I, and you’re about to annoy me into a goddamn asthma attack, so lay off a second, okay? You’re not my real dad, _ asshole_, so stop acting like you wanna give me a sibling so bad!”

Ben claps him on the back. It _ was _a pretty good retaliation. He waves the inhaler to make a stronger point.

To his surprise, Eddie catches his hand, with a gentle grip and an even softer expression. He actually looks a little guilty, and Richie almost feels mean - until he leans in real close, looks Richie deep in the eyes, and says: “aw, ‘Eddie’, baby… did I leave you _ breathless?_ ‘Cos like, I’m sorry, it’s just my natural pheromones and shit--”

“That’s it,” Richie says, fully himself, and throws up his hands in defeat.

The Losers clap for Eddie’s victory. A couple of members of the Derry High football team even join in, too.

“You got me, man, you got me _ good_\--”

“I’ve been excited all week for this,” Eddie admits. 

Richie so full of freaking respect that he shakes the shit out of Eddie’s hand. “You do me better than _ I _ do me, I’m telling you.”

“So,” asks Eddie, “like, with your greasy palms, yeah?”

Richie turns to Bill. “See what I mean?!”

“Like, we’re close and all, but I’m not sure I wanna be that person for you, Rich--”

“Where’d you get that shirt?” he demands.

“The dumpster out back of the Goodwill,” Eddie says flatly. “How’d you ditch your glasses?”

“Contacts, baby, they’re all contacts.”

There’s a loud cough from beside them. “Are you done flirting?” Mike asks. “‘Cos I bet Ben he couldn’t do three shots in a row, and they’re waiting for me by the ladder to the loft.”

“Yeah, we’re done,” Eddie laughs. Richie tries his best to join in, but holy freakin’ Moses, it feels like he just ripped a Winston in one drag. “Besides… I learned the words to this Fresh Prince song purely for my Trashmouth impression, so now I’m like, obligated to perform or some shit.”

“You learned the words to _ Boom, Shake the Room?”_ Richie says weakly.

Eddie fixes him with a look of poorly-faked concern. “Yeah, I did. Try not to cream yourself, Trashmouth,” he says, “it’s not something I’d do, and I don’t want you ruining my image by jizzing your shorts.”

Oh, boy. Richie tries to adjust his glasses, forgetting that he wore contacts out tonight, and accidentally pokes himself in the eye a little bit.

It’s about two seconds’ time before Beverly discards her bottle, and drags him and Ben onto the dance floor. Distantly, from close to the cooler, Richie thinks he hears Stan saying something along the lines of _ this is the best night of my life, and nothing will ever top this _ \- that motherfucker was totally in on both of their plans, he’s sure of it. It’s impossible to be certain, but he _ does _ make a mental note to fill Stan’s locker with sticks again. Just in case.

Then he gets distracted by Eddie, who’s jamming closely and wildly with Bev: _ work the body, wo-work the body! Slow down, girl, you 'bout to hurt somebody! _

He gives Ben a spin to take his mind off it. He doesn’t know whether to be thrilled beyond belief, or to shut down entirely.

The party is as good as he’d built it up to be. There’s very little vomit, and not even one single wayward piss, which is probably an ideal scenario for a party, in all honesty. There’s no cops. There’s only one messy relationship fight, and the center-dressed-like-a-cheerleader fixes it up pretty quickly with his girl. Beverly makes a special effort to dance with all of them. Stan gets a decent amount of attention that he seems taken aback by, too - although Richie does take the time to point out that _ he came dressed as the most famous backside in rock and roll, what the fuck was he expecting? _

“A bit of _ propriety_,” Stan says, not entirely sober.

When ‘Hungry Heart’ comes on, Mike curtsies at him before holding out a hand to dance. Apparently it’s propriety enough for Stan.

“I’m heading out for a sec,” Richie says eventually, wiggling his pack of smokes at Beverly - she shakes her head. Dancing with Ben - figures. Over the booing, he shouts: “ouch, folks, I’ll be back in five! Chill out for a hot minute, wouldja?”

The night air is cool against his face. It’s still mild for October. Just the way he likes it; the stars are pretty in Derry, on a night like this.

Sometimes Richie wonders how far into space he can see, from this strange little town smack-bang in the middle of Earth. It seems insignificant and extraordinary, that things are burning a million billion light years away from his own eyeballs.

But then again… That was the miracle of contact lenses, he supposes. Huh.

He lights up, and leans back against the frame of the barn. Mike, in all his wisdom, had decided against the combination of flames and booze, so there was no bonfire. Just Richie and the cherry of his cig. The gentle light soothes him. Vibrations of a song built on synthesisers thrum over the length of his spine, and out by the fence that encloses the grazing pen for the Hanlon sheep, it looks like a couple are necking under the oak tree.

“Gross,” says Eddie.

Richie fumbles his menthol. “Jesus Christ, Eds,” he splutters, coughing, “warn a guy if you’re gonna sneak up on him!”

“You wouldn’t warn me,” Eddie smirks, and leans back against the barn in solidarity. “Figured it was the only time in the world I could catch myself smoking, y’know.”

Richie’s struck by a terrible idea. “Not the _ only _ time,” he says, and offers his menthol out with a wicked smile.

“Absolutely not,” snaps Eddie.

“Aw, c’mon, you’re only me once.” Richie flicks his lighter and lets his pitch slide up to match Eddie’s: _ “I can’t believe you smoke those things still, they’re fucking disgusting and they’ll give you cancer-- is cancer worth skipping Math class for? Huh? Is it worth it, Richie?” _

“Your cause of death is gonna be listed as ‘inappropriate impressions’,” Eddie scowls. To Richie’s amazement, he actually takes the menthol, pinching it between the knuckles on his index and middle fingers. There’s one drag’s worth of a moment between his stupid whiny pout, and almost instantly looking like he regrets his entire life.

Richie retrieves the menthol from the disaster zone. “That wasn’t great,” he comments, except that it kind of was - Eddie with a lit cig between his lips is an image that’s going _ right _in the special filing cabinet inside his brain.

“Nope,” chokes Eddie, and waves a hand in front of his face to dispel the last of the fit. It doesn’t work. “Christ on the cross, Richie! It’s like if toothpaste hurt.”

“Yup. It’ll getcha.”

They watch in silence as the couple under the oak tree decide to ditch the party; Richie gets distracted by how, as the figures disappear down the Hanlon driveway, the girl offers the footballer-dressed-like-a-cheerleader her Pink Lady jacket.

“Are you mad at me?” Eddie asks.

Richie flinches. “What?! No!”

“Okay,” Eddie says, taking shallow breaths, “because it kinda seemed like you were when we got here and you saw my costume. I wasn’t trying to make fun of you. Well, I _ was_, but in the way you’re doing for me, like, in a friend way. I hope. I don’t know, I was worried you’d see me and think I looked like you wrong--”

“Are you kidding?” Richie asks, and crushes the stub of his menthol underfoot. “You did a great job. Look at yourself, you made being me _ hot_, dude. Never been done before. New territory.”

“You think I look hot?”

He feels the panic arrange itself on his face before it stabs him rudely in the throat - “don’t be a dumbass,” he says, backpedaling quickly, “you still came as Trashmouth. Can’t polish a turd, yadda-yadda _ whatever_.”

Maybe he’d imagined it, but just before, Eddie had almost seemed pleased by the admission. Now, though, he looks… well, not _ sad_, and not concerned, but some kind of winning combo of the two.

“You think you’re _ not _ hot?” he asks gently.

“Pffft. Not as Bucky Beaver, and _ definitely _ not as a second-rate you.”

Richie lets himself slide down the back of the barn until his ass hits the grass. He’s acutely aware that the sleeves on his borrowed polo shirt come down to his elbows, just like Eddie’s used to before his shoulders filled out and he started running track.

Eddie takes a ginger seat next to him, and tucks his knees under his chin.

“...You look nice neat.”

“Yeah, well,” Richie says, flushing, “you look nice scruffy. Shut up.”

To his astonishment, Eddie _ does_.

He wants another cigarette, but he can’t be bothered to fish the pack out from next to his dick. “D’ya wanna go back in and grab another drink? I saw Bev by the punch bowl with Dracula and Abe Lincoln, bet we can catch some chucks over there,” he says, hoping he doesn’t get ticketed for driving the conversation into a whole other lane. He braces himself on his knees to stand, with a slap of open palms that sounds like an ultimatum.

“I learned the words to ‘Baby Got Back’ for tonight,” Eddie mumbles.

Richie feels his mouth fall open.

“You _ didn’t_.”

“I did,” he cringes. “And ‘I’m Too Sexy’. I figured if we got too drunk then I could still play up my ‘You’ act, y’know?”

Richie’s smile is gonna break his face clean in two. “That’s so weird,” he says, his cheek muscles aching, “‘cos I learned the words to ‘Gold’ in case I needed to play up _ my _ costume, Eds.”

It’s kind of hilarious, how Eddie mirrors the way he’d gaped only thirty seconds ago. Like a circus mirror on a delay. 

“But… You _ hate _Spandau Ballet,” he says quietly.

Richie shrugs, as if to say, _ yeah, but I hate you less_.

“Man,” Eddie says, speaking into his knees. “I had this all planned out, y’know? I wasn’t gonna be an asshole about it, I was gonna be cool. I was gonna make you laugh and we were gonna drink and I was totally prepared for you to rib on me a whole bunch for my dumb plan. But unfortunately I’m, like, literally the stupidest person alive, and you look so different and nice without your glasses, right? And just now I weirdly called you hot when you were dressed as me, and _ then _I almost suffocated on your toxic spearmint bullshit.”

“That’s the name of my punk band,” Richie says casually.

“You’re a dipshit.”

“And you’re pretty cute, Eds,” he says, genuine and a little bit touched. He cricks his neck, swivelling to gauge Eddie’s reaction, only to find dipped eyelashes and a very small and private smile, directed right at him. He isn’t a hundred percent on what it means.

Richie gets to his feet and offers out a hand.

“Ass in gear, oh darling double of mine,” he grins. “Our party awaits. I think I can hear ‘Love Shack’.”

“Oh, that’s the most You song ever, I gotta get in on that,” Eddie says, and allows himself to be hauled to his feet. If Richie’s hand lingers too long, then neither of them mention it - Richie desperately wants to say something when Eddie’s fingers curl around his, just for a second, but he can’t figure out how to voice the sentence he really means. What actually comes out of his mouth is more like:

“Whatcha doin’ after that? I wanna slow dance with you to that 4 Non Blondes song, do you think Mike has it in his CD collection?”

“Hold up, no way,” Eddie says, and pushes him away with a snarky little look on his face, “if we slow dance, it’ll be to ‘It Must Have Been Love’, okay?”

Richie stares at him incredulously. “From that movie with Julia Roberts in?” he asks. “Do I have to be the hooker in this relationship, is that what you’re saying?”

“Of course it’s what I’m saying. _ Everyone’s _ calling you ‘Richie Prozz-ier’, haven’t you heard? Although to be honest, it’s more of the reverse, I should _ really _ get paid to hang out with you.”

“Ouch, Kaspbrak! You’re supposed to be letting me have the sharp tongue tonight,” he says. A hand leaps to his heart, like the words really _ have _ wounded him deep inside.

Eddie cocks an eyebrow. “What,” he smirks, “and I’m supposed to be on innuendo duty? ‘Cos I can let you have the sharp tongue if you really want.”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. Who’s to say?”

“Me, twenty-four seven,” Eddie says proudly, and pops the collar of his Richie costume. “That’s kind of your defining character trait, Trashmouth, so I’m literally gonna take advantage of it for as long as I can.”

Richie’s about to laugh it off and lead them back inside, except he stops when Eddie checks over his shoulders. Huh. No-one under the oak tree. No-one on the drive. Not even one single sheep in the goddamn grazing pen.

“Well,” says Eddie decisively, and then considers it, like he’s planning to add something else onto the sentence. “I-- ah, fuck it, who cares.”

He steps into Richie’s personal space bubble - which is pretty small to begin with, if he’s honest - and knocks the heels of his hands against Richie’s waist. The hold is too warm through the cotton of the polo shirt. It seems to travel magically skywards until it settles into Richie’s face, because Eddie is so strangely _ not shy _about this whole thing.

“Language, me,” Richie mumbles.

Impatience bleeds through - there’s the Eddie he knows and loves, with all the telltale signs. “Do you think you could manage not to be a smartass for five whole seconds? I mean, come on,” he says, busying himself. Systematically, he works through the motions - arranging Richie’s hands on his shoulders, brushing his ‘Richie’ hairstyle out of his eyes and propping up the glasses on his head, even rearranging his feet so their stance is as perfect as possible.

Richie lets him do it.

“I’ve always kinda wanted to find out what kissing myself would be like.”

“Of _ course _you fucking have, you narcissistic asshole,” Eddie sighs, although he sounds extremely pleased about it. “Okay. I’m ready. I am.”

Richie raises an eyebrow. “You are?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s no going back, y’know,” he says, pushing his luck, “once we swap spit, that’s it, you’re stuck with me--”

“Jesus jerkoff Christ, you _ douchebag_, would you _ shut up _ a minute,” says Eddie, and he even shoehorns in a quick eye-roll before pulling Richie flush against him, and firmly connecting their mouths together.

Richie makes an amazingly embarrassing noise and jumps. His hands fly into Eddie’s wavy ‘do, and oh _ hell _ yeah, that was definitely product and _ definitely _ Eddie still wanting to kiss him. There’s spearmint caught on the tip of his tongue and he’s not ashamed to say he chases it.

The barn door bangs open; it releases yellow and purple light into the yard, and they scramble apart guiltily.

Just as quickly, it swings shut.

The babble of voices and music is instantly muffled.

Richie’s eyes adjust to the darkness again, and he takes in his best friend - freckled beyond belief, horrible Hawaiian shirt creased, and cheekbones burning pink. Eddie looks _ gorgeous _ and Richie is so, so gone, holy shit.

Without breaking eye contact, he wordlessly takes a hit from the inhaler.

At the same time, Eddie’s fake specs slide down from his hair and land clumsily on his nose; he jumps again, startles, and Richie coughs his way into a laughing fit.

“Asshole,” Eddie grins.

Then he grabs Richie by the buttons on his polo shirt, yanks him forwards, and leaves him with one more brief, bruising kiss.

“Shall we go back inside now?” Richie asks breathlessly, in a higher pitch than he’d like. “We’ve been gone a while, the others are probably wondering where we are--”

Despite the interruption, Eddie lets a little giggle escape him. “Make yourself presentable first,” he advises, and effortlessly smooths down his own get up. He’s good to go in seconds - ah, the blessing and the curse of Trashmouth _ chic _ \- and starts trudging back towards the entrance to the barn. “Stop fidgeting - I don’t fidget.”

Richie pouts, and follows. “Aw, man,” he whines, flattening his hair down again, “you screwed up my parting.”

They fall into step with each other. Eddie guffaws. “You loved it. Did Bill help you with that, by the way?”

“Yeah, I was too focused on how sweet my ass looked in these shorts to be my own stylist as well, you know?”

“I don’t understand how he got your hair so good but completely half-assed his own costume.”

“Nah, me neither. He got really mad at me for thinking he was Beast’s human form, can you believe that? What does the dude have against the X-Men anyway...?”

Their hands brush when they simultaneously reach for the door.

“After you, Trashmouth,” Richie grins.

“I insist, Eddie Spaghetti,” Eddie says, and grins right back.

Maybe Richie wouldn't fill Stan’s locker with sticks after all… This had turned out pretty fucking well, even if he does say so himself.

Or, like… says it as Eddie. Just for tonight. God, who cares.

**Author's Note:**

> Costume list:
> 
> Richie: Eddie (an idiot)  
Eddie: Richie (a double idiot)  
Mike: Cheerleader (group costume with the Derry High Football Team)  
Bill: Sonic the Hedgehog, but no-one guesses it correctly. Not one single person. (It’s his own fault for half-assing his costume.)  
Ben: Danny DeVito’s Penguin  
Beverly: Scott Howard/Teen Wolf  
Stan: The album art of Springsteen’s Born to Run
> 
> Tracklist of mentioned songs:
> 
> Gold - Spandau Ballet (1983)  
Jump - Kris Kross (1992)  
Boom! Shake the Room - DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince (1993)  
Baby Got Back - Sir Mix-a-Lot (1992)  
I’m Too Sexy - Right Said Fred (1991)  
Love Shack - The B-52’s (1989)  
What’s Up? - 4 Non Blondes (1992)  
It Must Have Been Love - Roxette (1990 - ‘Pretty Woman’ soundtrack version)  
\---
> 
> A few things:  
\- I own the shirt Eddie wore for his costume, and [it’s a glorious monstrosity.](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/81fyczdI3PL._UX522_.jpg)  
\- If I could draw these Losers and their costumes, I would do so in a heartbeat.  
\- There were cameras out that night. You’d better believe these idiots have photo proof of how good they looked. ;u;
> 
> Thanks for reading - as always, kudoses/commentses/bookmarks are treasured. I’m also on tumblr @futureboy-ao3! ☺


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